A little night music
by SoonerOrLaterSherlock
Summary: 'I play the violin at odd hours' John discovers that Sherlock's music is far from the worst thing about him, and also can tell him a lot more about him.


Part 1 Human After All.

Well as the worst parts of living with Sherlock Holmes went it wasn't bad. Compared to head in the fridge, drug raids and the general danger of imminent death the sounds of Sherlock's Stradivarius weren't much of a hardship.

The first time he heard him really play was several weeks after moving into Baker Street, until then he'd plucked angrily at it, fiddled with it, used it to ignore Mycroft and Mrs Hudson when it was convenient but it seemed that despite the initial warning he was almost shy to play it in earshot of John.

It was an average evening by the new standards John was using, the day before had been spent wrapping up an interesting –but not taxing case of smuggling and today a refreshingly dull day at the surgery. Now in the evening while John tapped slowly at his blog trying his best to sound intelligent enough to pass muster with Sherlock while his flatmate, not in the post case fugue that John had previously seen from this minor diversion was busying himself with some complex experiment in the kitchen. John had managed to glean that Bart's had temporarily grown weary of his experimentation and it's unwanted results, apparently a few first year students had inadvertently opened the freezer door onto one of his more gruesome projects. So now it was John who was treated to such delights, he was considering calling in a few favours to get Sherlock reinstated in the lab, it wouldn't stop the experiments in the kitchen but it might take a few of the more potent ones away from his spaghetti Bolognese.

Growing weary of his blog, failing to finish the entry but instead firing off an email to Harry and a few of the army buddies he still kept in sporadic contact with. 'That one is cheating on his wife' Sherlock had commented over his shoulder en route from retrieving a book from his room.

'Thank you! It's bad enough you read my emails when I'm not at the computer never mind when I haven't finished writing them!'

He didn't need to look at Sherlock to see the satisfied smirk. John rolled his eyes, it wasn't as if he had anything interesting for Sherlock to read, or that there was anything he probably didn't already know. Snapping the lid of the computer shut, not bothering to lock or password protect it he got up.

'I'm off to bed.' He announced.

'Good night' Sherlock offered actually glancing up at John from the vials of chemicals in front of him. John eyed the concoction suspiciously.

'Do me a favour? Put that to bed at a reasonable hour, I don't want Mrs Hudson running up here at 2am again because she thinks you've blown up the kitchen.'

Sherlock made a face that was neither a rejection of the suggestion or an acceptance. 'Fine' he conceded after a moment, 'I'll find something else to occupy my evening.'

'Try sleep' John muttered as he turned to the stairs, knowing without staying for the answer what Sherlock's response was;

'Boring' he muttered into his vials.

An hour later John was beginning to drift off after becoming engrossed in the book he'd stolen from Sherlock's vast collection-a nineteenth century French mystery that was entertaining and had a detective who was eerily familiar. His eyes were dropping and sleep crept in as he became aware of a sound, a noise from bellow-not a noise that suggested danger or at the very least explosion, but something he realised he'd heard little of since moving in-music. He assumed it was a CD as his brain first tuned in; Sherlock despised the radio with the 'imbecilic commentary' interrupting the music. A slow gentle sound was making its way up the stairs, like a lullaby quiet but not mournful. It was vaguely familiar but not easy to identify. It was though enough to make him sit up in bed put down the book and listen. The piece ended and he heard footsteps and a soft twang of a string being pulled and he realised it wasn't a recording; it was Sherlock.

He didn't know why he was shocked, the man was brilliant at everything well, reasoned John, remembering the Solar system and several conversations around elections time that were frankly disturbing, anything he put his enormous mind to. A few more squeaks of tuning accompanied by soft footfalls came from bellow before the music began again, this time John immediately recognised the piece; Mozart an upbeat piece infectiously energetic a lot like Sherlock when he was working John smiled, wondering if he played as he worked, leaping around unable to keep still. He longed to go down to watch him play, but he sensed at the first sign of an audience Sherlock would stop. This was a test more of himself perhaps than John, though John wasn't sure why it suddenly mattered to the man who rejected all social graces despite reading them so accurately.

John lay back and listened as Mozart gave way to a steady Braham's piece, an almost march like quality to its tone, steadfast strong baseline but with delicate snatches of lightness. John loved music, all kinds something his mother had imbued in him from a young age but he never had grasped the technicalities or the language of it thinking of it as he did now in a translation of life experience. The piece was a contrast to the manic frankly Sherlockian exuberance and energy of the first, it was it's antithesis, grounded. He could be imagining it, he considered, that his imagination had run away from him but perhaps there was something beneath the choices. The piece ended on a familiar note and John realised he knew both from his mother's records as a child, both were pieces he knew and loved, this whatever other deductions he was attempting to make was not a coincidence. John smiled in the darkness to himself.

He didn't have long to question whether he was supposed to deduce deeper meaning from this impromptu concert-or indeed how impromptu it was, as another piece started and answered his questions while raising more. Sherlock began to tease out an unfamiliar work, slower, not sad exactly but relaxed perhaps reflective even. It was totally unfamiliar, contemporary his limited musical knowledge told him whatever it was it was truly beautiful. John listened and his mind heard not sadness but perhaps loneliness and long low notes eked out bellow, then as the piece built to a swell of emotion there was a plateau, a contented moment of piece before as the final notes rang out, a question in music another kind of aching yearning. And then silence. In the absence of the music John chided himself for reading too much into it, it was late he was tired; Sherlock was merely practising his violin as he had threatened. At least, John mused it wasn't likely to explode.

As much as he tried however the aching question of that final piece inhabited his dreams that night.

The next morning unusually Sherlock was up before John- unusual for a day when he appeared to have actually gone to be d. Becoming a student of observation himself John took in Sherlock wearing his silk robe over pyjamas creased in the front by sleep-, his ruffled hair yet unwashed and his usual styled 'mess' was flattened on the left from sleep, and pointing in every possible direction on the right. The fact that he was sitting eating a bowl of cereal with his black three sugars coffee indicated a concession to normal eating and sleeping habits that occurred between cases and bouts of depression or boredom. Such moments were still rare to John and he found it at once refreshing but also a little unnerving. A yawn as John walked in raised an amused smile from John, completing the picture and suggestion that Sherlock was in fact human after all.

'Morning' John said brightly

'Good morning' Sherlock said lifting his eyes from the paper

'There's coffee' he commented his eyes still on John as he moved to the kitchen

'Ta' John called back trying and failing to conceal his surprise and excitement, domesticity was far below Sherlock's primarily concerns in life so any concessions were always surprising and always welcome, though often used as a diversion. John shot a glance back to the living room.

'I didn't break anything' Sherlock said as usual in reply to a question John hadn't verbalised.

'I didn't say a word' he said needlessly, bringing his coffee and cereal to sit opposite Sherlock, he took the main section of the newspaper from under the pile Sherlock had created. Sherlock was perusing the culture section of the Saturday paper intently clearly regarding current affairs as irrelevant for today. They ate in silence for a few moments before Sherlock deliberately laid down his paper and looked at John.

'You're fond of Mozart' he said

John was taken aback, a quiz about last night's music, 'Well, yes I suppose' he tried to read his flatmate's face, slight frown of concentration was knitting his brow.

'Good' Sherlock concluded, nodding 'There is a concert tonight. Can Sarah spare you for an evening?'

'I fear Sarah may have permanently spared me'

'I suspected as much, felt it rude to say anything'

John snorted.

'So you'll come?' Sherlock asked with a deepening of his frown, an anxious note to his voice

'Of course' John smiled

'Good' Sherlock mused running a hand through his hair, not succeeding in tidying it. 'Good'

He returned to reading the paper and John noticed the cover, 'Wait is it that concert-the Centenary Gala concert at Covent Garden?'

Sherlock continued reading.

'Obviously'

'But it's been sold out for months. It was on BBC news yesterday.'

'Was it?' Sherlock took a lazy sip of his coffee, 'Mycroft owes me several favours.' He allowed himself a small smirk of satisfaction.

'Anything to do with his credit card bill that you stole?'

'Intercepted.' He corrected 'Possibly.' He defiantly smirked this time. 'Anyway you'll need to wear your good suit. The grey not the black. And a tie.'

John nodded, not bothering to question Sherlock's knowledge of a suit he wasn't even sure he'd unpacked yet never mind worn.

It was thanks to Mycroft's influence and a new navy silk tie that somehow appeared on his bed after he showered and shaved, that John found himself slightly uncomfortably stuffed into his old suit that was a little tighter than he recalled. Sherlock had ushered him into a taxi a long time before it was really necessary to leave, pacing the flat for a good ten minutes while he waited for John to be ready. John always on military time had already allowed plenty of time and they arrived a full forty five minutes before the performance was due to start.

John had never been to Covent Garden before, not the actual Opera house, he'd marvelled at a distance at it, had vaguely entertained taking dates there before balking at the prices. Inside was as grand and opulent as he'd expected, he had expected to feel out of place-what business did an army doctor have in a place like this? But with Sherlock striding confidently at his side as if he'd been coming there all his life-which John reasoned he probably, had- he felt a part of it. It was like when Sherlock took him to crime scenes, he evoked a natural authority that nobody really questioned wherever he went and as long as John was at his side nothing seemed to faze him.

Sherlock expertly checked their coats into the cloakroom and seemingly retrieved their tickets in one swoop. He was followed by an usher keen to show them to their seats. They were escorted up a grand staircase and quickly ushered into a private box clearly laid out for a full on hospitality reception, or on closer inspection, a romantic evening for two.

'Well this is...'John searched for an appropriate adjective 'Nice?'

'Mycroft's idea of a little joke' Sherlock smiled 'still is a shame to waste such quality champagne.' He inspected the bottle, and John took a moment to observe his flatmate-a pastime that had yet to cease being fascinating. Sherlock following his instructions to John appeared to be dressed in his best suit-saying something given his usual standard of attire. A very good quality black suit, a dark grey shirt and matching tie John marvelled at how clothes seemed to wrap themselves perfectly around Sherlock and look like they were made for him in contrast to John's make do attitude. His normally unruly hair seemed to have been tamed momentarily and his usual, again immaculate shoes had been replaced by dress shoes that looked like they cost more than John's first car.

With a smirk and a flourish Sherlock pulled out a chair and gestured for John to sit, John narrowed his eyes at his companion and obeyed the silent command. As he sat he muttered

'He's here too isn't he?'

'Oh yes' Sherlock replied 'May as well give him some entertainment'

Sherlock pushed John's chair in leaning a little closer than normal before pulling out his own and edging it a little closer to John's than necessary. He pulled the champagne from the ice bucket;

'Champagne John?' he asked, the glint still in his eye.

'Don't mind if I do' John replied trying to hide his own amusement.

Sherlock popped the cork with a flourish and filled two glasses, handing one to John he raised an eyebrow. 'Now what shall we drink to?'

'Childish feuds?' John suggested dryly.

'Who said anything about a feud?' Sherlock asked

'No, this is you having fun isn't it?' John said unable to suppress his grin,

Sherlock's mirthful glee dropped for a moment and his face became serious, then questioning 'Yes' he said softly, as if the answer puzzled him.

'Sherlock?' John asked

He shook his head causing his arm to move and champagne to spill, instinctively John reached out to stop further spillage and caught Sherlock's hand instead of the glass. For a moment they froze, John looked at his hand covering Sherlock's then at the floor, quickly letting go.

'Enough of a show for Mycroft?' he asked, suddenly inexplicably embarrassed.

'Quite.' Sherlock wiped his hand with the table cloth, for a moment there was silence. John fiddled with his glass, looking down at the table cloth.

'Music.' He said suddenly

'What?' Sherlock asked, sounding as if he hadn't really heard.

John picked up his glass again, refocused. 'A toast, to music' he caught Sherlock's gaze and smiled. Sherlock returned the smile, reaching all parts of his face eyes crinkled with delight.

'Indeed' he said raising his glass to John's 'To music'

Before either of them could say anything more, before John reasoned he made a mess of this-whatever this was, he wasn't quite sure, and before Mycroft could make any more inferences, intended or otherwise the lights dimmed and the music began.

John had forgotten just how much he enjoyed classical music, and just how familiar he was with much of the programme. He smiled to himself and thanked his mother's tireless efforts to instil some culture into Harry and him as children, years listening to the Proms on the radio and attending the local Philharmonic Orchestra's Christmas concert had furnished John with a good working knowledge of music if not the technical ability. More than that he found himself as he sipped perhaps a little too much champagne more than a little liking for the genre. Of course, he reasoned glancing over at Sherlock, leaning forward intense concentration on his face he was going to get a further education and if last night's concert was an indication, a greater love of music.

As the lights came up for the interval a light came on in Sherlock and he was as he was in the midst of a case exuberantly manic, talking about the music the first violin the cello the conductor and a hundred things John could barely keep track of and probably wouldn't understand if he could. All the while he was drinking the champagne and eating from the table of food that had magically appeared in their box pausing only to swallow and insist John try whatever it was he was currently eating, or to allow John a 'yes' or 'indeed' of agreement to his latest declaration of wonder at the performance. John just smiled and enjoyed the monologue, a second performance as it was but certainly not secondary. Just as the bell sounded for the second act Sherlock finally paused and drew breath, fixing John in his gaze he became serious again.

'You are enjoying this?' he furrowed his brow

John chuckled at the implication of which show he might be enjoying, 'Yes, very much so'

Sherlock frowned, confused.

'Yes. Sorry Sherlock. Yes very much so.' his voice dropped a little on the last phrase and he frowned himself.

'Good' Sherlock nodded taking his seat again, 'Good.'

John smiled as the lights went down, a little perplexed that his enjoyment should be so important to someone who all too often showed no regard for the feelings of other. He ignored the voice that suggested he was an exception, or asked why but he was pleased nonetheless. Putting confusion aside John settled in to enjoy the second act, casting occasional glances to his side fascinated by the look of total absorption and child like fascination that returned to Sherlock's face. As the music of the second half became more dramatic his face contorted a ghost of the emotions conjured by the music bellow chasing across his face in the half light.

As the music swelled to its grand finale John cast a glance at his companion. In the dark his pale skin was more illuminated than John's own and from their privileged position the stage lights cast just enough light to see clearly. Quite clearly in the dark John saw the tears streaming down Sherlock's face. John watched fascinated for a minute as the music rose to a swell around him. It was unnerving and exhilarating at the same time to see him so exposed, so undone. Suddenly he understood, he understood what Sherlock was trying to show him and just what it meant. Music allowed him something the rest of the time wasn't truly possible, what his great mind wouldn't allow-it set free his emotions.

'It doesn't mean I can't appreciate it' John muttered to himself.

John watched fascinated as Sherlock's eyes filled with emotion and his breath rise and fall with the music tears still streaming down his face. As the music swelled to the final note he seemed to hold his breath exhaling a breath that shuddered his whole body as though the music left his body with another shudder that reverberated though his entire body.

Sherlock leaped to his feet with carefree abandon his cheeks still wet as fresh tears spring to his eye John smiled, a surge in his own chest at this display from his friend, the joy etched across his face so different to his normal demeanour. He was compelled to stand himself and step forward in the box applauding behind Sherlock who was clapping with almost wild abandon oblivious it seemed to the stream of tears that still flowed freely down his cheeks.

John dug into his suit pocked and pulled a handkerchief from his pocked and touched Sherlock's hand with it. Without looking behind he curled his long fingers around the small piece of material and took it from John. As the orchestra rose to bow he lifted it to his face and wiped away the tears. As the conductor stood to take a final bow John saw his hand clench around the blue material still in his hand as a wave of emotion threatened to spill over again.

The lights came up and for a moment Sherlock kept his head bowed, discreetly he wiped at his eyes one last time with the handkerchief and cast a furtive glance over at John offering his handkerchief back.

'Keep it' John said 'For the next time.'

Sherlock smiled and nodded taking a long moment to carefully fold the handkerchief and place it in his inside jacket pocket. 'Thank you' he said, John wasn't entirely sure whether for the handkerchief or something else.

'Shall we?' Sherlock gestured to the exit John nodded and led the way. In the crowded lobby Sherlock left John to retrieve their coats and he turned on his phone, why he wasn't sure as the most likely person to call or text was about ten yards away impatiently waiting behind ladies quibbling over their furs. His phone buzzed softly moments after being turned on and John looked at the screen.

'He is human after all' John rolled his eyes at the signature 'MH' and pocked his phone as Sherlock arrived. Sherlock cast him a questioning look.

'Your brother wanted to know if we enjoyed'

Sherlock shrugged into his coat holding out John's slightly less smart dress coat.

'So it seems' he said holding out his own phone so that John could read the text he'd obviously retrieved in the queue.

'Dry your eyes little brother, you always were soft for Wolfgang.'

And Sherlock's typically acerbic reply;

'Just because I have the mental capacity to appreciate it.'

John smiled at just how childish their brotherly feud could become. Sherlock returned his smirk, 'Mycroft was always jealous my musical ability, the only thing he couldn't compete with.'

They turned and followed the crowds out of the theatre and through the crowds of tourists still milling around at Covent Garden. John took the opportunity;

'Well it is quite impressive' he said 'I mean from what I heard last night.' He glanced sideways at Sherlock who continued looking straight ahead, John looked away and felt Sherlock's eyes immediately fall on him.

'What I mean is' he continued to his shoes, that had as usual fallen in step with Sherlock's despite the difference in their stride, 'Well it's not something you need to list as a worst point for potential flatmates.'

'Am I likely to be looking for a new flatmate any time soon?'

It was laced with sarcasm but there was a vulnerable undertone John detected

'No.' John stopped forcing Sherlock to halt too, 'No' he repeated more forcefully. Sherlock looked at him holding his gaze for a long moment, clear eyes boring into his own as if assessing, debating.

'Good' he concluded striding towards the road. 'Shall we walk? It's a pleasant evening?'

'Yes.' John agreed, 'Yes it is' falling into step beside him again.

That evening when John was in bed Sherlock began to play again. After a few moments John recognised the piece from that night's concert, a happy piece filled with hope and joy. John smiled as he fell asleep, human after all indeed.

Part 2 What Can't be Spoken

John staggered up the seventeen stairs of Baker Street holding on to Sherlock for support while Mrs Hudson cooed bellow.

'I'll bring you some tea and cake up shortly, you both need feeding up, and hospital food does nobody any good.'

He felt Sherlock chuckle softly against him and winced in pain as he did the same on the fifteenth step he lost his footing and slipped. Sherlock quick as a cat tightened his grip and steadied him while John winced in pain as his broken ribs objected to the jolt. A flicker of concern furrowed Sherlock's brow as John held up his hand to signal a pause as he regained composure. He'd forgotten just how painful broken ribs were. However, he reasoned that combined with a concussion and a few minor burns and cuts were a small price to pay for escaping the pool alive.

John had actually borne the worst of the injuries diving in front of Sherlock to cover him from the blast, as a result Sherlock had been released from the hospital the next day while John had remained for two days. Not that Sherlock had left, keeping a constant if virtually silent vigil while John slipped in and out of drug fuelled consciousness. He had a vague recollection of Mycroft appearing and a clipped argument between the brothers in which careless government and Mummy featured prominently other than that and a few enquiries after his care Sherlock had been silent, but ever present.

Making it to the familiar surroundings of the living room John gave a sigh of relief. He found himself manuvered to the sofa and eased to sitting by his companion who upon setting him down gave a curt nod and paused as though about to speak when Mrs Hudson interrupted. In a whirlwind of tea cakes and complaints about bloody hospitals and something about the dangers of gas leaks which John assumed was the official line for their injuries.

'I mean, twice in two weeks to be caught in one Sherlock that's unlucky even by your standards.'

John felt his eyes growing heavy as Mrs Hudson's chatter blurred into a series of noises. Eventually Sherlock's voice cut through the chatter.

'Mrs Hudson I think John needs some rest now.' He declared with the gentle affectionate authority he reserved for their landlady.

'Oh poor love you're right, look at him can hardly keep his eyes open. I'll leave you be.' She patted John's head like a dog as she passed Sherlock expertly shepherding her to the door as she fussed about proper food and keeping warm. At the door their footsteps paused and she said in a stage whisper

'Now you take care of that man Sherlock, he deserves it. Thing's he'd do for you, and you know it.'

'Yes Mrs Hudson.' Sherlock said in a patient pleasant tone he always used with their landlady even when others would get the sharp end of his tongue, but then in a softer tone, perhaps thinking John wouldn't hear, 'I know.'

'Good boy.' Mrs Hudson said, and though he couldn't see John was pretty sure she delivered an affectionate kiss to Sherlock's cheek, which again he accepted with good grace.

John heard a soft exhale for the door and Sherlock's footsteps moving towards him, he perched himself in John's usual chair and rested his elbows on his knees pressing his fingers together fixing John in his gaze. John looked at him for a moment, realising how tired he looked and how this with the large gash across his forehead and red raw burn across his cheek added to his general broken down appearance, a far cry from the immaculate invincible Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock saw him looking and threw him a question with his eyes.

'You look life shit' John replied his voice still hoarse from smoke inhalation. Sherlock smiled a half smiled amused but a little sad.

'So do you' he replied.

There was a pause as they looked at each other, John sensed a strange tension in his flatmate that had been there since the pool. He threw a question of his own with his eyes.

'You need to rest' Sherlock declared, ignoring what John knew perfectly well he'd seen. 'You should use my room for the time being, less stairs.'

John nodded, sensing a decision had been made, 'Alright.' He conceded, 'Let me lay here a bit first-fed up of beds, pass me that book.' He gestured to his novel still on the coffee table from before it seemed like such a very long time ago. Sherlock obliged before moving to the window and gazing out at Baker Street. John waited for him to speak to say whatever had been on his mind but nothing came. He tried to concentrate on the book but words began to blur.

John may have dozed off, or simply not heard him move but from behind him there was a pluck of a string indicating Sherlock had picked up his violin, a few plucks of the strings and a minor tune up gave way to a slow mournful piece, relaxing but achingly sad. It seemed vaguely familiar to John but not one of his favourites. Perhaps it had been in a film or on an advert.

John twisted his head as far as he could without disturbing his aching ribs to look at Sherlock. He was playing next to the window his eyes closed a look of deep anguish and sadness on his face as he teased a heart wrenching note from his violin. John inhaled deeply transfixed as the music picked up into a frenzy of discordant notes then calmed into a mournful wail.

He understood as Sherlock picked out a series of delicate piques what he was telling him, what he couldn't say with words, the pain and yes the guilt he felt for what had happened to John. What he was saying, trying to say, in the same way the music spoke to Sherlock's emotions the way nothing else did, he spoke through the music, because he couldn't or didn't know how to, say it any other way.

John watched him for a long moment, eyes closed against the music as he stained out the last note. He remained still for a moment bow sill poised then opening his eyes directly onto John as if he'd known all along he was being watched. John held his gazed softening his expression, trying, hoping that the strange affinity for communication they'd developed over such a short time was undamaged. After a moment Sherlock nodded and John turned away facing the Victorian moulding of the ceiling and exhaled.

Sherlock picked up the violin and began another piece, soft and wandering with gentle soothing notes. John smiled as his eyes grew heavy, Sherlock was playing a lullaby.

John opened his eyes to bright daylight, for a moment he wondered where he was, a familiar scent of expensive aftershave and floral shampoo wafted over him. He looked down to see a heavy woollen blanket he recognised from Sherlock's room covering him. He tightened his grip on it, the reality of consciousness assuring him he was home. He heard a soft twang of a violin string to his right. Sherlock was sitting in John's usual chair, violin in hand plucking idly at the strings.

'Have you been there all night?' John asked sleepily.

Sherlock nodded, 'You've slept soundly I see.'

'Yeah.' John muttered pushing himself painfully to sitting 'Yes.' He locked Sherlock in his gaze.

'You're alright?' Sherlock asked slowly.

'Yes.' John winced 'Fine' he paused painfully adjusting his aching limbs 'I will be' he confessed. He looked at Sherlock 'Thank you.' He said gently.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow quizzically then let it go. 'You need to eat' he declared.

'So do you.' John affirmed. 'I deduce you haven't eaten since...what day is it?'

'Wednesday.'

'Then since...what day was it...'

Sherlock inhaled 'Saturday' he paused 'Correct, I don't count what they forced into me in the hospital as food.'

'Right. We're going out then. And then you're doing the shopping with me.'

Sherlock huffed in protest, carefully set down his violin then wordlessly and with no pity came and helped John to his feet, holding onto his arm and guiding him towards the door.

'Sherlock' John said

'Mmm' his companion replied

'Nothing.' He said losing courage.

'John?' Sherlock raised an eyebrow in concern.

'No, nothing it's just.' He paused 'Play some Mozart tonight, yes?' he asked. As he said it he looked down but squeezed the other man's arm gently as Sherlock guided him down the stairs. As he brought him down the narrow staircase Sherlock raised a hand up to steady him, but squeezed back just a fraction, daring to stay a moment longer than necessary.

'Mozart' he murmured 'Mozart.'

Part 3 Where Words End

Lestrade brought him home after...after what John couldn't even bring himself to think it.

He was basically fine, physically. Paramedic had patched up some minor injuries at the scene; he remembered insisting he was a doctor and knew he didn't need hospital treatment and a heated argument, his own voice raising until Lestrade stepped in.

He heard Lestrade's hushed tones bellow now as he plodded up the stairs, legs like lead. He heard Mrs Hudson gasp and knew Lestrade had told her what happened. John cursed himself again, what he had allowed to happen, by agreeing-by not resisting more. Made into a decoy, a distraction while unspeakable events happened just a short distance away. Mrs Hudson began to sob, and John steeled his heart against the sound. He wasn't ready, he knew once it came that grief would be overwhelming and he couldn't, wouldn't allow it-not yet. He didn't have the strength.

John stopped at the door and took a deep breath, steeling himself once again. The living room was of course, just was they'd left it, what seemed like a lifetime ago but was in reality mere hours. John had been in the army and a doctor long enough to know that minutes changed a life but he'd never had firsthand experience, what was set in stone, what was is now gone and only a matter of hours in between.

Cold mugs of tea still littered the coffee table, the dregs of John's cold tea and his cold coffee. His thought John, willing the name out of his head. The debris of work notes scattered across tables chairs and floors indicative of the manic past few days. Last few days thought John and quickly chased the thought away. His laptop still open on the table swirling a starry night screensaver, he snapped it shut angrily on his way past. He threw himself heavily in this chair and put his head in his hand.

Two sets of footsteps came up the stairs

'John' Lestrade said softly gentleness in his voice John wasn't used to. 'I'm going to go. Get some rest. I'll be by tomorrow to...' he couldn't seem to finish the sentence.

'Ok' John managed.

Lestrade turned to go and paused 'John, I'm sorry' he said.

'Thank you.' John almost choked on the words.

Mrs Hudson stifled a sob raising a handkerchief to her mouth as Lestrade left. She sprang into action. 'Tea dear, I'll make you tea that'll help-warm you up and sugar is good for the shock.'

John let her busy herself with the tea bustling around the kitchen and running downstairs for the 'good biscuits' She pottered back with a tray and hovered.

'There you go, nice cup of tea and some good biscuits, no the rubbish you-bot-'she stopped herself and swallowed a sob 'Oh dear' she said.

'Thank you Mrs Hudson. Much appreciated.' John said quietly, not able to look at her certain if he did he would lose all vestige of control he was clinging on to.

'Alright dear you get some rest' he sensed her move away but then felt her swoop down upon him in a haze of lavender clinging tightly around his neck and planning a kiss on his head.

'You'll get through this dear. We will' she said into his hair. John had to grip the arm rests as if his life depended on it and held his breath. She shuffled away hanky to mouth and John exhaled.

His body was exhausted but he knew he wouldn't sleep. Since returning home sleep had become difficult, that was until his new life began and sleep, total and undisturbed was brought on by either total exhaustion or-no he couldn't think of that. He delved into his pockets for the pills the hospital had given him. They were strong, stronger than they'd normally prescribe to a patient at home but after spelling out that he was an army doctor with PTSD and possibly just to get rid of him at that point, they'd relented-with just enough to get him through the night. No matter he concluded, he would for the first time in his life abuse his position to get a prescription anything that would allow him to slip into the long painless oblivion of sleep these pills would allow.

He eased himself painfully to his feet and to the kitchen. Mrs Hudson's tea and biscuits though well intended would go to waste. He rummaged in the small cupboard behind his chair, well stocked drinks cabinet that was rarely touched save for a celebratory whiskey at Christmas. Again a memory flared he was forced to suppress. He sought out the same bottle, half empty good stuff. He couldn't bring himself to drink it. Further back there was another bottle, cheap stuff but fairly potent which was the exact quality he was looking for. He poured a glass and downed it in one. The burning sensation a pleasant pain in contrast to the rest that wracked his body and mind making each thought or movement unbearable in a thousand different ways. He poured another and downed it in one, then filling the glass again walked slowly painfully to the living room. He paused at the chair and took another gulp. He looked across at the sofa and shuffled over, he sank heavily onto it.

He threw the pills into his mouth and chased them with the whiskey, within a few minutes he'd soon feel the affects, he drained the glass and leaned down to the place it on the floor his hand brushed something hard and his blood turned to ice. He let his fingers rest on the hard wood for a moment closing his eyes against everything it conjured. Slowly and gently as if afraid it would shatter or perhaps he would. He reached around and picked up the violin.

He laid the instrument on his chest like a child or a pet and lay back. Choking back both the urge to be sick and to give into his emotions as a familiar scent wafted up from the cushions of the over used sofa. He pulled the violin closer to him and ran his fingers over the hard cold wood. He found a string and plucked at it sending it vibrating into life. The note rang out into silence.

'Sherlock' John whispered before the drugs took effect and sleep engulfed him.

John woke the next morning the violin still in his hand his sleep and drug addled brain taking a few moments to register the object in his hands and a few more of blissful ignorance before he registered why. The pain he felt upon the realisation was worse than what he then registered from his ribs and his head. Subconsciously he gripped the violin against the pain.

'One generally plays an instrument to alleviate pain John not caresses it John.'

John sat up sharply at the sound of Mycroft's voice. He was sitting in the armchair umbrella at side immaculate as usual but with John noted a distinctly weary air there was flatness to his tone beyond his usual clipped measured intonation.

'My-I-Jesus' John stumped.

'Come John you had to expect me, the family and the widower need to converse, arrangements to be made.'

This time John saw the sarcasm hid a raw emotion that was dangerously close to breaking through. John chose to ignore both the barbed comment and what it hid.

'Tea?' he suggested.

Mycroft nodded curtly then to John's surprise stood up himself 'Allow me.' He said 'You must still be in a considerable amount of pain.'

'That uh thank you.' John stammered frowning. Mycroft nodded again.

'I suggest you take those painkillers.' He commanded as he moved to the kitchen. John noticed for the first time two pills on the table with a glass of water next to them. He complied with Mycroft's instructions, moving the violin carefully to his side before taking the pills and sitting back. He rested a palm on the violin and waited.

Mycroft returned with two mugs of tea, exactly how John liked it. Obviously. He thought with a pang.

'Thank you.' John said as Mycroft returned to his seat and fixed John with a curious stare.

'I supposed you already know-'

'Everything.' Mycroft cut in with a measured tone. 'Yes. So no need to distress yourself relaying any of the details to me.' He took a slow sip of tea and fixed John with a stare so familiar it hurt. He'd never noticed the physical similarities between the brother's before, but well hidden beneath the initially contrasting appearance were features and mannerisms startlingly familiar.

'I am truly sorry John. I realise what Sh-what my brother meant to you.'

'Do you?' John asked before he could stop himself. 'I'm sorry. I'm not-'he took a steadying breath. 'I'm sorry too, your brother.' He paused forcing himself to go on 'Sherlock.' He almost choked on the name. 'He was your brother and I'm sorry.'

'Thank you.' Said Mycroft with the most sincerity and genuine emotion John had ever seen. He cast he gaze downwards avoiding John for the first time.

'I used to fear the drugs.' He continued 'then the dangerous escapades he got himself into, that he was alone with nobody to stop him. But then, well.' He looked up again and John saw the tears pricking at the pale eyes that now held more of his brother than John had ever noticed. He felt his grip tighten on the violin steeling himself once again.

'I don't blame you.' Mycroft continued 'It seems necessary to say.' He swallowed 'Without you... well.'

'I did what I could.' John explained, 'Yesterday.' Christ he thought, was it only yesterday? 'I –' he began to explain

'Stop.' Mycroft said, half order half plea, then softer 'I know John, I know you did.' He took a careful sip of tea and gathered himself. 'I must go.' He declared 'There will be arrangements...I'll be in touch.'

He stood and picked up the umbrella and a package next to it that John had previously not noticed.

Mycroft handed the small brown package to him.

'I received this package six months ago with instructions to give it to you.' He paused again, 'On an occasion such as this.' He placed it on the table next to John's tea and with a curt nod turned and left.

Silence descended heavily upon the flat. John could hear Mrs Hudson downstairs clucking over Mycroft and he smiled a little, even the British Government was powerless against his landlady. He listened to their muffled conversations, glad of the distraction from what lay in front of him. Eventually the door banged shut and a car moved away signalling Mycroft's exit. John held his breath hoping he wouldn't hear Mrs Hudson's footsteps on the stairs.

A phone beeped on the table, not John's phone which he hadn't had reason to check with nobody to text him, but a newer model, brand new by the looks of it. He picked it up:

I told her you were sleeping and not to disturb you until this evening. MH.

It beeped again

Your phone was destroyed you needed another. I took the liberty. MH

And again

All saved messages were transferred to this one. MH.

John stared at the phone for a long moment. It started to ring.

'Hello?'

'As you once suggested this is far easier. Open the package John I suspect it may help, however.' He paused, audibly taking a breath, 'Painful it may be.'

There was a long pause at both ends.

'John?'

'Thank you Mycroft.'

'Take care of yourself John.'

'You too.'

John hung up and stared at the package for long moments before carefully picking it up. He turned it over in his hands several times, examining. It was perfectly rectangular, so whatever was in it was in a box. He gently shook it. Nothing, just a solid weight in his hands. Carefully, as though afraid it might explode he put it down and opened the plain brown packaging, on the underside, just where the paper was taped, across the lines where it met was scrawled a familiar signature. Mycroft proofing no doubt, and no doubt John reasoned failing.

The paper released revealed a plain wooden box which John carefully lifted the lid from to reveal 12 CD's, the kind that come blank, each with a number written on the index sleeve. On top was a sealed envelope, expensive stationary he noted with his name on it in the same unmistakable hand that had signed the paper. Sherlock.

John inhaled sharply, picked up a CD for some clue as to its contents. His first thought was to assume they contained information, data he needed to know something pertaining to the case, to what had happened. Knowing that Mycroft knew exactly what was on the CD's he was forced to dismiss that thought, not only would he have been more direct he would probably never have given them to him. John knew the only way to find out was to read the letter.

But that was the one thing he seemed unable to do. Not yet. If these were the last words he would hear from Sherlock Holmes then well, he had to be ready. He knew he would never be ready but now wasn't right somehow. He stood up and looked at himself in the mirror, ashen and still covered in blood and dirt. He didn't dare contemplate whose blood was whose.

The best part of an hour was taken cleaning every part of his body, scrubbing every last trace of the previous night from his body, trying to scrub away who knew what. He dressed again and began to slowly tidy the flat, clearing cups and dishes, gathering stray papers into piles. Carefully he gathered together the artefacts of the case and put them into a box for Lestrade, being careful not to look at them, he knew one day soon he would write up this case, a final case it seemed right to do so and then he'd look and he'd do his best by his friend, as his faithful blogger.

Mrs Hudson interrupted him with a tray of food and insisted on staying to ensure he ate it. John didn't mind her chatter and presence distracted him marginally and delayed the inevitable. When she left him alone with a final cup of tea he felt the oppressive silence closing in around him.

The phone beeped.

Don't delay any longer John. Trust me. MH

John sighed, trusting Mycroft Holmes was the last thing he thought he'd do along with begrudgingly admitting he was right. He returned to the sofa and picked up the envelope. He held it to his nose chasing the faint scent he knew would linger there, a scent he was so finely attuned to he could pick it out in a crowded room.

'Who says I didn't learn anything?' he asked the air with a sad smile.

He chased the scent along the envelope and his chest ached with both its familiarity and its absence.

Carefully oh so carefully he teased open the envelope.

John

I hope it is you that reads this and not Mycroft, that is actually I hope you never read these words, but if an instance arises for this box to be opened I may only hope that whatever befalls me (and let it please not be something foolish like a London bus) leaves you untouched. That is my one wish for you John Watson that you go on when I do not.

The words of emotion have alluded even puzzled me in my lifetime that is why I have chosen this method with which to tell you everything I owe you in death, and that I should have expressed in life. Twelve CDs John for the next year and as many after that as you may stand. The first time I ask you play them in order, a recording for every day of the year, music to tell you everything I cannot. You are clever John Watson, it is my firm belief you will know everything I intend to say better than had I used words.

Yours, as in life

Sherlock Holmes

For a long time John couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't feel. Then very slowly as if being controlled by something or someone else he reached into the box and pulled out disc number one. He made his way across the room to the kitchen where the CD player lived, he opened the lid with a pop and slipped in the plain silver disc closed the lid and pressed play.

A single note rang out clear and delicate and exquisitely painful, John gulped in a lung full of air just to keep himself upright. As the first note segued into a the next and the next the opening bars spoke to him of sorrow and regret and so much longing he thought it might burst from his chest. He gripped the worktop until his fingers turned white forcing himself to breathe as the piece wove on through a series of delicate notes that begged forgiveness, blended into a dark movement of fear and regret and ended with a sequence of such delicacy and beauty John's already aching heart was almost broken completely at the beauty. In the strains of the final notes he heard echoes of a lullaby he'd been played many months before when his body was broken by Moriarty. Now his body would mend but his heart would not.

He pressed stop obedient to his instructions to only listen to one track per day, then his hand returned to the player, he wasn't after all told he couldn't listen to the same track again. He hit repeat and let his legs give way under him to the sound of those clear and perfect first notes, as the aching sadness of the first bars played out he let out the breath he was holding since the track ended and with it the tears he'd been holding in since the moment the realisation had hit.

'Sherlock is dead.' He said to himself through the tears, as the words left his lips a deep reverberating note that spoke of the deepest sorrow gave way to the lighter notes of the lullaby. The tears came thicker and faster as John realised for now, for a little while longer he still had a piece of that man, a piece of that life to hold onto. He let himself sob into the music that night in the hope, in the belief that Sherlock had intended he be able to pick himself up the next day and carry on.

Sherlock as always had been correct, the next day though his chest hurt from crying and a much deeper ache that would never really go away, John Watson got up and though he didn't begin to live his life again straight away he began to pick his way slowly through knowing that each night there was music waiting for him. He settled into a routine again, his life wasn't back how could it be when his life had been tied up in the man who was no longer there? But a life of sorts replaced it; he went to the surgery, he saw old army friends, he took tea with Mrs Hudson. He threw himself into writing the blog, using all the notes he'd compiled starting to create a record something of worth to leave behind and something he knew to occupy his mind.

Every night at exactly 11pm he allowed himself to listen to his day's track. He sometimes allowed himself to listen to all of the old ones too, when he was feeling particularly alone, reasoning it wasn't technically breaking the rules. The music kept him company on long nights when the noise of the television wouldn't calm his mind, the accompanied him while he tapped at his blog and as he did he allowed himself to remember all the quirks of the cases all the brilliant and dangerous moments, and all of Sherlock Holmes. He came alive again on the screen and in John's mind while his music, and the more he wrote the more of the man came alive in the stories, much more than the few he'd managed to re-create while he was still there. It was as if desperation to leave his record accompanied by the soul of the man himself through the speakers enlivened something. Everything made it into the stories, their lives together between cases the small quirks of his personality from his eating habits to immaculate grooming. And the violin though he never got close to putting into words just what the violin meant, he didn't want to, that part of their life was just for them. His readers noticed the increased presence of the detective himself in the cases and began to ask him questions, indulging him to flesh out the man further and though John was sure at least one of the questioners was his therapist, who he'd grudgingly returned to and another Lestrade.

Lestrade's ongoing friendship had continued professionally with requests to consult on a case just often enough to provide a welcome distraction while Lestrade's periodic invitations to watch sporting events at the Yard local or a quiet pint in the middle of the week gave John must needed respite, for a while he was the John Watson he was before all of this, before him. But of course he never quite was, sometimes slightly worse for wear from drinking with Lestrade and the team, or meeting an old army buddy he'd stumble home and steel himself for a scolding from Sherlock for his drunkenness. Only when he put the key in the lock would he remember and the silence of Baker Street comes crashing around him.

It had, on the whole, stopped being painful to get through the day. Most days. He'd stopped missing the man brilliant man who had taken over his life every minute of the day. Mostly. What he'd never done is stopped running over the possibilities in his head, late at night his music playing in the background as he tried in vain to sleep. What might have they done? What might have been said? What might they have been, Dr Watson and Sherlock Holmes?

He looked for answers in the music certain that was what Sherlock wanted him to do. It was a mixture, popular pieces John knew and loved and that Sherlock had played for him often, knowing just that. There were pieces that were clear in their meaning, slow mournful pieces to match John's blacker moods and jubilant wonderful pieces to accompany his ascent from the black despair or force him upwards. Many he didn't recognise but assumed they were just outside his limited knowledge. Two right at the end he was certain were Sherlock's own composition.

The date had not gone unnoticed, as the weeks kept closer to that date the date when John Watson's life had changed once again so totally his emotions became heightened, everything he felt was extreme from pain to tiredness even hunger. It was similar to when he first arrived home from the war, those weeks of acute feeling like a wound stripped raw. He feared more the empty blackness that had followed. The music seemed to know, of course Sherlock knew better than he did what he was feeling. Soothing pieces and uplifting symphonies were delivered to John at the end of each day, allowing him to feel but tempering those feelings keeping him just back from the edge.

The third from last piece was Sherlock's lullaby, the one he'd played after John was injured at the pool. It soothed him as it did now although he ached with sadness at the note of apology and guilt Sherlock had composed then, even more poignant now. The second to last piece John recognised from that first night, the first time he'd heard the violin. It was as he thought of it Sherlock's piece the music that leaped about with exuberance of it's composer it was neither happy nor sad but full of life and intelligence like music John had never heard, it was quite simply him.

The final piece. The final track of the final CD, a year after John had returned to Baker Street alone he sat there again, much as he had a year before body in one piece mind and heart in shreds. He'd thought he was used to it by now, that he was healing he was after all a soldier he was used to loss he had seen far too much of it for one lifetime. He reasoned at 10.58 pm as he poured himself a drink-the good whiskey this time-that perhaps this had just been one loss too far. Everyone had their limits after all and that was why a year on his hands shook as he unscrewed the lid, why his chest constricted and threatened to cave in as he pressed the play button for one final time.

The music that filled his ears was beautiful, there was no doubt even in his limited understanding which had grown considerably over the last year, technically brilliant in composition and performed even beyond the daily standard he had come to experience. The piece was slow and quiet, delicate notes picked out and long mournful notes soaring cutting like a knife through his chest. A few bars in and John understood, this was the real letter Sherlock had left him a year on when he knew he could process it. The piece was in part him, part Sherlock and his goodbye, his apology. He could hear him in the music more eloquently than his written words knowing that however he had come to leave John this gift it had been in John's interest, that is to keep him alive when Sherlock himself would not be. And John felt his sorrow and his apology for that, in the last note hearing his goodbye, yours Sherlock Holmes cut deeper into him than any words ever could.

It got better after that, slowly. Day by day. The music was still there, every day at first still unable to break the habit. Then later, freed from the rules he'd wait save up the music for a few days waiting until he felt the need or sometimes just to enjoy the luxury of an evening alone with his favourite pieces. He put the CD's onto his laptop creating playlists of his favourites for certain moods, times of year occasions. He even uploaded a few tracks to his blog, his way of letting the world see just enough of the heart behind the mind of his friend. He came to know them well, all but four pieces; the first he had heard and the last three, Sherlock's pieces as he called them John continued to reserve for only the very darkest of moments fear that familiarity would rob them of their power. Foolish he chided himself for giving in to such sentimentality a man like him shouldn't be sentimental, but he reasoned people changed. But the music was always there.

He carried on as life did around him. John found himself permanently installed in a surgery the work enjoyable if not challenging. He drifted into a couple of pleasant relationships and a few shorter term affairs. He wrote his blog he carried on keeping the world of Sherlock Holmes alive, its popularity astounded him after a year he was getting demands to fill it more regularly, document all the cases. Another year on and he was being asked to write a book, he did so slowly pulling the records from the blog adding to them seeing to do the man and their work justice. It consumed him and the music accompanied him.

It had been first one year, then two and now three. That night the one constant, the music and the pain he felt as he poured a scotch and listened to the last note ring out still felt like a knife to his chest, he knew now he would wake the next morning exhausted from tears he would no longer allow to fall any other day of the year. The next day as usual he picked himself up dusted off the hangover that now also accompanied that day and made his way to the surgery.

Nothing else about that third time was usual he had expected to go through the next day, in a daze to come out the other side a little more put back together instead John Watson felt himself once again ripped to pieces by Sherlock Holmes.

It was beyond what even he had begun to expect in the time they spent together, the pharmaceutical representative ushered into his office late in the morning who had fixed him with an intense stare so familiar it sent a wave of ice running through his brain. Later he realised he'd known but couldn't believe it, the clever disguise and the weathered aged eyes that betrayed him. When the disguise was lifted and Sherlock revealed himself very much alive the last thing John remembered was a sensation of the air being sucked from his lungs as the world went black.

When he came to and recovered the power of speech he had shouted, every obscenity he knew and a few he thought he'd forgotten and Sherlock sat and took it those cold eyes locked to John's taking on every insult and accusation when John finished he stood.

'Have you finished?' he asked barely concealing a clearly painful injury to his ribs, probably broken John reasoned, and cradling a hand wrapped in a bloody bandage which John now noticed for the first time 'It's just I'd very much like to go home now.'

There was such weariness in his voice often so devoid of emotion betrayed something deeper. John shook it off hardened himself still unable to process what was happening and unwilling to give Sherlock more of a reaction than he'd already gotten.

'Not until I sort that out.' He'd conceded gesturing to the hand.

Now hours later Sherlock was perched in an armchair, elbows on knees hands pressed together boring holes into John's back with his eyes. John tidied the kitchen putting away the remains of their mostly silent dinner as slowly as he could. Finally he turned and stood in front of Sherlock.

'Why?' he said simply.

Sherlock lifted his gaze meeting John's he held him there in silent answer, the one he knew John already knew before speaking.

'Protecting you.'

John held the gaze himself offering his own silent retort before answering himself 'You were wrong.'

Sherlock dropped his gaze and inspected the floor intently as John walked away.

There was silence between them for days, not through John's anger or Sherlock's guilt though that was clearly there, but because they seemed to have forgotten how to talk to each other. They passed each other, John on his way to work Sherlock just going to bed or occasionally having just got up. They spoke in the manner of flatmates nothing more, Sherlock was congenial but reserved offering nothing more than his first explanation of his departure asking nothing of John's life in his absence.

John lay in bed staring at the ceiling unable to sleep after the fourth day of silence. Silence. It dawned on him, he had done everything to fill the silence left by Sherlock and he had helped him fill that silence and now he had returned and there was a nothing an emptiness. Pausing to consider the implication of what he was about to do John stood and went downstairs.

Sherlock was lying where he'd left him after dinner, stretched on the sofa book in hand devouring pages at an alarming rate. He didn't turn when John entered, heading straight for the old sideboard next to the kitchen where all manner of junk lived three years ago, now carefully organised. He went straight to the compartment and took out the battered old case, laying it on top of the cupboard he clicked open the stiff clasps. He felt Sherlock's eyes on his back and turned holding out the violin.

Sherlock stood and crossed the room in two easy paces, standing as usual too close to John he took the violin from his hands and spun away. For a moment John expected him to flee to his room but he knew that the gesture was understood when Sherlock began to pluck and tune the instrument. He stood and faced John in the middle of the living room and began to play.

Sherlock's eyes were closed but John never looked away, the notes achingly familiar now though only played three times were etched into his consciousness. There was a difference however, played live in the room eked out from that ancient violin by its master and the man who had composed it changed it as only a true musician can. John heard for the first time the acute pain amongst the sorrow and apology, he heard the dilemma and debate of the great mind and the weighing of options. As the last note rang out he heard what he always heard but amplified-regret, sorrow and a pain so deep it once again wrenched his heart.

Sherlock let the violin drop to his side and opened his eyes, his cheeks were streaked with tears and he stood unmoving as if waiting judgement.

Words though what had been missing between them ceased to be necessary John crossed the room in short purposeful strides and wrapped his arms around his friend. There was a pause a moment of shock before he felt long arms and the thud of the violin against his back. He paused a moment debating stepping back allowing only the symbolic gesture of the hug to be enough, he leaned back but felt Sherlock's arms tighten around him and he gripped back. For long moments it seemed they were caught in a tug of war, when each felt the hug should end the other would tighten just a fraction willing it not to be over yet.

When finally they did pull apart, just far enough for them to separate and look at one another John realised his own cheeks were streaked with damp. He brushed angrily at them with the sleeve of his jumper.

'Here' Sherlock said producing a handkerchief, the same one John had given him at the Opera all that time ago.

John took it with a smile 'Said you'd need it again.' He said 'You managed to keep it safe all this time?' he said offering it back.

'It was important to me.' Sherlock said pocketing the handkerchief carefully.

There was a long moment of silence, no longer uncomfortable. Finally John spoke;

'Carry on.' He said nodding towards the violin.

Sherlock glanced down uncertain.

'Please' John said settling in his chair.

Sherlock nodded, picking up the bow and began to play. John smiled and Sherlock returned the gesture before turning t look out onto Baker Street while filling the flat with music.


End file.
